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Only the dirt I do believe |
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As memory vanishes among the leaves |
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Wizard of tickets is always glad to charge a pilgrim's fare |
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Jubilee's generally early. Let's take the country air |
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Mistreating granite, limestone, and clay. It's a shameful soil |
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But all grows well on the floodplain tract if you can afford the toil |
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Cradled in ivy, we will allow |
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The moss to prosper upon our brows |
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Boxer rebellion, the Holy Child. They all pay their rent |
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But none together can testify to the rhythm of a road well bent |
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Saddles and zip codes, passports and gates, the Jones' keep |
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In August the water is trickling, in April it's furious deep |
|
Wizard of tickets is always glad to charge a pilgrim's fare |
|
Jubilee's generally early. Let's take the country air |
|
Mistreating granite, limestone, and clay. It's a shameful soil |
|
But all grows well on the floodplain tract if you can afford the toil |
|
Only the dirt I do believe |
|
Divinity vanishes among the leaves |
